“One and Nine attach, One and Nine attach. You are on your own!” The voice spoke quickly and clearly over the command circuits, booming from every speaker in every sub. This was the long awaited signal, manual command, the first subs on their way with their cables. Ten cables at each end of the bridge, numbers One and Two being the shortest on top of the pier, Nine and Ten the longest because, from the center of the span, their cables had to reach far down to the bottom of the pier. Now the two subs each with one of the pair of the longest and shortest cables had been released from computer command and were moving ahead on their own to attach their cables, racing at full speed to make their hookups. As soon as they had done this the next two subs would be sent in with their cables during the vital two minutes during which the tunnel would be in the right place at the right distance for hookup. Four cables were needed, on each end to anchor the bridge-tunnel against the pressure of the current. If these eight cables were secured the bridge would be held in place; the computations had been exact. Once these eight were in place the remaining mooring cables would be attached one at a time with greater precision. But those four cables had to be fastened first, if they were not there was no telling what disaster might occur as the bridge was swept out of position.
Nautilus II, motors whining at full speed, led the way towards the anchorage, O’Toole busy at last with the controls, yet even as he dived, remembering to ease off on the keel line and tighten up on the bow line that was fastened to the mooring cable like a spring, riding loosely until now. The drum and motor for this line were on a spar that jutted twenty feet from the sub’s nose and were easily visible in the forward camera. Sell before the sub had reached its goal the heavy mooring cable had been reeled in until it was snug against the end of the spar, the orange painted twenty-foot long section of cable just above it. This was the target area. As long as any portion of this colored area was snagged by the waiting jaws the hookup would be successful, for this area was well within the bending tolerances of the bridge and the natural arc of the cable. For precise measurements a two-foot wide black band was painted about the middle of the orange section, the area of optimum choice.
O’Toole handled the bulky submarine with an artist’s touch, spinning it on its beam ends so the spar pointed up and out at the waiting jaws, taking up the weight of the cable, being forced astern for a moment, then thrusting out—but not so fast that he rammed the pier. Up slowly, drifting, correcting, forward, the spar like an immense guiding finger reaching out for the target. Gus, standing behind the pilot, unconsciously held his breath as the pier moved closer and closer until it seemed they would ram into it.
“Got it!” O’Toole shouted with joy as the iron jaws, like a great metal alligator, slammed crunching shut on the cable just on the black band, so strongly they could feel the impact within the submarine. “And now clear and we’re away.”
He pressed the two buttons that sent an electric current through the wires inside the towing lines, a current which exploded the shackles that secured them to the anchoring cables. The smaller lines dropped free and the electric motors whined to run them in as the submarine backed away.
“Number Nine hooked as well.”
Gus said, looking at the scene from the keel pickup on his monitor screen. “Numbers Two and Ten begin approach,” he ordered into the command circuit.
At that precise moment it happened, just then at the worst possible time for the anchoring of the bridge, a moment when success and failure were suspended on a razor edge of seconds. But world time is a measurement on a different scale; rather say that geologic time is indifferent to mankind’s brief existence on the outer skin of the globe, experiencing thousands of years, or even hundreds of thousands of years, as the smallest unit. Pressures had been building in the Earth’s core as the tidal flow of molten rock pressed up against the solid crust that floated upon it, building pressure slowly but insistently, pressure that had to be relieved for it could not be endured too long. A seam deep in the rocks opened, a great mass shifted, stone grated on stone and the pressures were equalized, the Earth was at rest again. A small thing in geological time, too small to be even measured, or noticed, in comparison to the mighty forces always at work. Yet large enough to wreak havoc to man’s work.
Inside the solid Earth there was a deep grumbling as of some immense giant complaining and turning in his sleep, a sound so great it shook the solid stone above and transmitted itself to the water which in turn struck the solid steel fabric of the submarines, jarring them and tossing them about before passing on.
“Earthquake…” Gus said, rising from the deck where he had been thrown. “An undersea quake, just now…”
He stopped, aghast at what was happening outside, the scene so clearly displayed on the screen. The tremors in the Earth had been passed to the anchored cables which were bending and writhing like things alive, sending traveling shock waves along their length to the lightly anchored bridge above. The bridge and anchoring cables had been designed to absorb shocks and quakes like these, but as a unit, well secured and soundly anchored. Now the two cables were bearing all the strain that twenty had been designed for. It was impossible; it was happening. What damage was being wrought to the bridge! Gus dared not stop to consider, the damage before his eyes was even greater for, harshly burdened and overstrained, the cables were tearing from their fittings.
Terrible to see, impossible to turn away from, the heavy steel and concrete anchors crumbling and shattering, breaking free. Pulling from the moment’s paralysis Gus grabbed for the communicator.
“Number Two, draw or release your cable, do you hear me?”
“I can attach, I can—”
The words cut off, never finished as tragedy struck. With the two holding cables torn loose the floating bridge above twisted and moved, bent, floating free, dragging on the attached cables. The submarine, Number Two that was about to attach its cable, was simply lashed forward like a child’s toy at the end of a string and thrown against the stony wall. It took a fraction of an instant, no more, as the pressure hull cracked and the incredible weight of the water at this depth compressed, destroyed, flattened the vessel in the smallest part of a second, so quickly that her crew must have had no slightest warning of their doom. It fell slowly, a dead weight at the end of the cable.
Gus could spend no time with concern for the dead now, for he must think of the living, the submarines still attached to the bridge and the fate of the bridge itself. For long seconds he forced himself to stand there, to think logically, to consider every factor before going into action, while all of the time the communicator roared with voices, questions, cries of anguish. Reaching a decision he smashed down the command switch and spoke with cold clarity into the microphone.
“Clear all communication circuits, silence, absolute silence, this is Washington speaking and I want silence.” And he received it for within seconds the last voice died away and as soon as it had he spoke again. “Come in Section Two commander, give a report. We have had a quake at this end and are not connected. What is your condition.” The response was immediate.
“Section Two commander here. All in the green. Four cables connected, about to go for the next two. Some tremors and movement apparent on our lines.”